


UNLOVER

by finned (tenderized)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Red String of Fate, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25637263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderized/pseuds/finned
Summary: Atsumu has always been destined for greatness.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 5
Kudos: 72





	UNLOVER

**Author's Note:**

> for lovers who hesitate - bandjannabi

In their third year, Atsumu and Suna share a class. This is the first important thing.

________________________________ 

There are two other very important events that happen to Atsumu in his last year of high school. 1) He is scouted for the MSBY Jackals, and 2) he gains the ability to see the threads that tie him to other people.

It happens in the middle of a practice match, 3-vs-3, and he fumbles his set a little, tosses it with a bit too much force as his vision shifts. Regardless, Suna reaches up, fingers making contact, and slams it past the blockers and into the floor, opposite. Point.

“Off your game,” Suna mocks. 

The jeer falls on deaf ears as Atsumu looks at his fingers and flexes them, watching as the strings ripple and move with his hand.

They’re faint, gossamer things, cobweb-thin and just as insubstantial, lines connecting him to every player in the gym. One, a darker grey than the others, stretches to join him across the net to the other side of the court, where his brother stands, watching him with narrowed eyes.

He waves a hand through them experimentally, and they disperse when he makes contact. A little annoying maybe, but ultimately, not that big a deal, he thinks.

Atsumu settles an arm around Suna’s shoulders, pulling him down to ruffle his hair roughly even as the other squirms. 

“You got lucky,” he replies, staring back at his twin.

Life moves on.

________________________________ 

_You know, they say that there is a part of the human chest that if you strike hard enough, it makes the person’s heart explode._

________________________________ 

One day, it all disappears. It happens in the middle of a confession, too, and one second he can see the little line coalescing between him and the second-year girl as she hands him a letter, and in the next, it’s gone, winking out of existence.

This is more startling, and Atsumu turns tail and leaves, no explanation, feet bringing him upstairs to an empty classroom, where he’d last seen one of his threads, opaquer than the rest and tangled with another, lead.

He slams the door open, and his brother and Suna jerk apart to look at him. The setting sun, orange, streaming in from the windows opposite, blinds him, and he brings an arm up to shield his eyes.

“Fuckin’ hell, ‘Tsumu, scared the shit out of me,” Osamu says, guilty look disappearing as soon as he realizes who it is. He scrubs a hand over his face, and then picks up his pencil again, never mind the fact Atsumu knows he wasn’t doing homework in the first place. “Thought ya were heading home.”

“’Samu,” Atsumu says, breathless from running up three flights of stairs, and something in him, knocked off-balance the moment the threads had disappeared, settles at seeing his brother. 

“What,” Osamu scowls at him, and unsubtly moves further away from Suna, who by all appearances, is looking bored with the conversation. Atsumu’s eyes snag on the younger’s red ears, however, and he rips his gaze away.

“Nothing,” he sneers back. “Stay safe. Use a condom.” And he leaves, door slamming shut behind him. It's weird, he can't catch his breath.

When he’s downstairs again, the girl, Yuna-or-something, is gone, and he swears, kicks at a rock and watches it ricochet off one of the pillars and into the grass nearby. Fuck these strings and fuck Osamu.

That night over dinner, Osamu tells their family he’s planning on quitting volleyball after high school. There's a school he's interested in, located in Hiroshima. 225.4 kilometers away. Atsumu goes to sleep, fingers bare and feeling cold.

________________________________ 

Atsumu’s threads come back about a month afterwards. Or rather, a single dark red one appears, wrapped around the base of his left thumb and extending out, away, before it disappears. Different from the others he had in the past, this one is corporeal, and it pulls taut when Atsumu tugs at it.

Similar width as the E string of a violin, it resembles a wire more so than the gauzy threads from before. When Atsumu pulls at it again, he can feel the give, and when he loops it around his fingers, a little jealously, making sure it's tight, his heart twinges. 

He lets go, wincing.

Next morning, Suna Rintarou walks into class late, hair a mess, and Atsumu’s gaze falls hungrily onto the other boy’s hands. He squints and leans forward as much as his desk will allow him. 

There’s a red string tied around his thumb.

Blinking, he looks back at his own fingers, but he can’t see where they connect. If, past all the tangles, they connect. He bites his lip. Focus already minimal, the rest of the lecture goes in one ear and out the other.

The second the lunch bell rings, Suna stares straight into Atsumu’s eyes and tells Atsumu that he’ll kill him if he is disturbed, and in a rare gesture of vulnerability, pillows his head in his arms, knocking right out. Osamu’s gone off somewhere, abandoning them to entertain his new girlfriend.

Atsumu unwraps his sandwich and peels back the bread to examine the contents. He rewraps it, not hungry. Osamu will eat it later anyway.

He rests his cheek against his fist and watches the other, who is, for all purposes, dead to the world. Suna’s got ugly dark circles under his eyes, plum purple beneath his dark lashes, and is drooling onto his fingers.

The nail of Atsumu’s index finger scrapes at the red string where it meets the skin of his thumb. Carefully, slowly and holding his breath, he draws the thread in closer bit by bit and winds red around his wrist. Thirty-two circles later, his ribs begin to ache. 

He yanks at the string a bit harder.

Suna’s hand, warm and heavy, slips off the table and falls into Atsumu's lap.

________________________________ 

_I believe it._

________________________________ 

Atsumu swipes at the blood beading up from the base of his finger, rubbing it between thumb and index and feels the way it slides, sticky.

“Miya,” he hears. 

“Just a second,” he yells.

Footsteps walk up to him, stopping a good meter away. “Hurry up. We’re going to be late.”

It’s instinct that makes Atsumu hide his hands behind his back even though there’s nothing there to see. Sakusa stares down at him impassively, expression hidden by his mask.

“Omi, I told ya I’d be ready soon,” he says, snappish, when the other doesn’t leave. “Or you want a show?”

Sakusa wrinkles his nose in disgust. “We’re leaving in five. If you’re not ready by then, you can walk.”

Atsumu jerks his head in what he hopes is a rude gesture, and Sakusa seems about to turn around before his eyes seize on Atsumu’s stance.

“What’s wrong with your hand,” he asks, gaze narrowing. 

“Aww, do you care about me?” Atsumu backs away. “It’s not contagious, unfortunately, so don’t worry.”

It’s the wrong answer, clearly, because Sakusa steps forward, insistent.

“Show me,” he demands.

Sighing and wishing he’d never gotten out of bed this morning, Atsumu brings up his hand. “Look, everything’s fine,” and he flexes his hand in demonstration, holding back a wince.

Sakusa, however, recoils, surprising Atsumu, who feels a weight settle in his stomach. He snatches his hand back.

“You gonna leave now?” he presses, looking into Sakusa’s dark eyes and not liking what he sees.

“You need to get that fixed,” Sakusa snaps, looking angry suddenly. “It’s unsanitary.”

“What – “ Atsumu’s mouth gapes open. “Wait, you can see it?” Atsumu snatches up this bit of information with the desperation of a starving animal. “Sakusa, don't fuck with me now, can you see the string?” He reaches out to grab at the collar of the other’s jacket, movements shaky.

Sakusa sidesteps him. “Don’t touch me, Miya.” His voice drips acid. “If you want to fuck up your hand and stop playing, that’s your business. Otherwise, I suggest you stop acting like a brat and remember that there’s two ends to that thing.”

Without another word, he walks away, and then Atsumu is alone again.

________________________________ 

“Hey, Suna.” The other boy looks up at him from where he’s doing his cool off stretches, bangs damp from sweat. “Stay behind and practice spiking with me.”

Suna wrinkles his nose. “What, why? No way, I need to study. Some people want to go to college, you know?”

Atsumu licks his lips, mouth dry, and frowns at the reminder. Absently, he twists the thin red thread, rubbing where it meets his skin, and thumbs at the chafe.

“’Cause it’s almost the Spring Interhigh? There’s something I wanna try out, and I need a blocker.” Atsumu can see Suna wavering, so he says, “Just half an hour more or so’s not gonna hurt.”

Suna glances over to the right, so quick Atsumu almost misses it, but he follows the other’s gaze to see Osamu waiting, leaning on the door to the gym and scrolling through his phone.

“Yeah?” he snaps, more impatient now.

“You can’t ask Osamu to do this with you?”

“No, it has to be you.” Atsumu pauses and adds as an afterthought, “Plus, I’m captain, and ya were sloppy as hell today, and I didn’t say shit. You owe me.”

Suna lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Okay, whatever. Thirty minutes then I’m leaving. I got a test this week.” Taking a moment to roll his neck, bones cracking obnoxiously, he gets up, calves flexing, and Atsumu watches as Suna walks away and ducks in close to say something in Osamu’s ear. 

Atsumu swallows, feeling the red noose around his thumb drawing close, digging in firmly. He grits his teeth, ignoring it.

Osamu raises his head and meets Atsumu’s gaze, nods at whatever Suna says without looking, and Atsumu holds Osamu’s stare before raising his hand to flash his brother the middle finger. Osamu rolls his eyes before turning back to Suna, the tension broken. 

He clasps Suna on the back of the neck, fingers tightening briefly, before turning around and walking out the gym, the door swinging shut behind him.

“I’m all yours,” Suna says and sets a timer on his phone, brandishing it at Atsumu. He bends down to pick up a volleyball. “How do you want me?” The gym is empty except for them.

Several thoughts flash into Atsumu’s head, unbidden, leaving him too hot. He jerks a thumb to the other side of the net.

It’s a simple block and smash drill – set, hit, block, repeat – and Atsumu falls into the familiar motions with ease. Feels the pumping of his heart, heavy breaths, bend, flex of the muscles, harsh slap of his skin against leather, and the ache is comforting.

Suna's form is elegant as he stretches up, and for a moment in one of their universes, they are connected.

 _How high?_ , Atsumu wonders. He squints against the bright lights of the gym, the glitter off broken glass. _Just a little more, if he can make Suna jump a little higher—_. He strains against the marionette strings holding him back and brings his arm up.

“Fuck!” The ball goes careening out of bounds, and Suna doubles over, one hand grasping at the other.

“Suna?” Atsumu ducks under the net and is by the middle blocker in the next second. “What happened?”

“Jammed my fucking thumb,” Suna hisses. The pain has involuntary tears gathering at the edges of his eyes, and Atsumu can see the way they cluster into little droplets on his eyelashes as he blinks. “Fuck, that hurts.” He flinches away when Atsumu brings his fingers up to—

Atsumu cuts off the motion immediately and reaches for Suna’s wrist instead, something inside uncoiling in relief when the other allows it. He holds Suna’s hand in his own and takes a look.

The thumb is beginning to bruise, burst blood vessels ugly against pale skin, and it feels hot to the touch, already swelling. It's angled forward, like someone had tugged it in the wrong direction.

Atsumu inhales sharply through his nose, eyebrows pinching together, and prays it’s not dislocated. Hesitatingly, he traces a broken vein, following as it cuts into the circle of scarlet thread, a garrote, with his index finger, touch feather light, and he flinches back when Suna gasps, wincing. This is his fault, he knows, and his own thumb throbs mockingly. Suna is not a dog, and he does not need someone to drag him along.

Suna draws back, and Atsumu wants to throw up a little. He blinks rapidly.

Suddenly, he feels a sharp jab at his forehead and looks up, feeling disoriented.

“Hey,” The younger says with uncharacteristic gentleness. Suna’s looking at him weirdly. “It’s probably just a sprain, you know? It’s happened before, not a big deal. I should be fine for Nationals.”

Atsumu wets his lips. “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out rough. “Nationals.” He shakes his head briefly, collecting himself. “Come ‘ere, I got tape with my stuff.”

In the locker room, the lights are much dimmer, and it smells strongly of AXE deodorant and sweat. Atsumu fiddles with the locker combination while Suna straddles one of the benches.

He lays the materials between them and pushes in close until the edges of Suna’s athletic shorts brush up against his knees. “Let me,” he says, and Suna spreads his legs apart further to accommodate.

Atsumu cradles Suna’s hand in his, and he can see as the red thread bunches, but even this close, he still can’t find where they connect, although now he knows they must. He rips an alcohol wipe open with his teeth and proceeds to clean the other’s hand from wrist to fingertips.

Atsumu lays an anchor down, cuts a strip of tape and taking it, wraps it in a circle at the base of the other’s wrist, just below the fine bones that jut out.

“Not too tight?” he asks, not looking up, conscious of their proximity, the way Suna’s soft breathing ruffles his hair, their heads close together.

“Fine,” Suna says, rotating his wrist experimentally.

“Okay.” He takes another piece of tape and wraps it in a loop around the base of the thumb, right over the red wire, presses it in firm, the way he was taught. Suna's fingers are long and bony, the ends of his nails blunt. They're thinner than Atsumu's, skin chapped and rough.

“Atsumu.” From the cautious way Suna says his name, as if it’s a mouthful of iron, Atsumu can tell he’s not going to like what comes next. A pause, as Suna mulls over what to say. “Osamu says you’ve been acting strangely for a while.”

“Yeah?” His fingers pause in their ministrations. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve been acting strangely for a while.”

He pulls another strip of tape around in a second loop, crossing over the previous one, to hold the thumb in a neutral position. “Well, you know, last Nationals and all’a that.” Last, last, last. He's not lying even if it's not the whole truth.

“Right.” The lights in the locker room buzz and flicker.

“Hey,” Atsumu’s voice is soft, casual, and he thinks of Osamu’s hand on Suna’s neck and long nights spent studying together and a future without him. His eyes catch on a cute pink keychain, something completely not Suna's style, clipped onto the zipper of the other's backpack. “Don’t you have a girlfriend right now?” A girlfriend and a plan for the future, one that doesn't involve him. The subject change is inelegant, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Yeah?” Suna looks up at him, gaze sharp. His eyes are a strange, nebulous color.

Atsumu hums. “Just never see her around, ‘s all. What kinda dating is that?”

Suna scoffs. “Like you’re the role model for dating. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you last more than two weeks before they dump your sorry ass.”

“You’re the one keeping track,” Atsumu smirks and watches the red spread across the bridge of Suna’s nose. 

He looks back down, heart in his throat, and wraps the tape possessively across the distal joint of Suna’s thumb, before bringing the scissors up to trim the ends. Curls the edge down flat with his fingertips, careful, and lingers.

“You wanna go to college after high school, right? Back in Tokyo or something." His head feels like it’s filled with cotton and fanciful dreams. "Long distance might be hard.” Sometimes it’s better to rip the bandage right off, expose air to the wound, so it doesn’t fester, he reasons.

“Yeah.” Suna’s fingers curl around his slightly, compress and withdraw. “We can’t all be scouted like you, you know. Not all of us are meant for more.” Suna’s quiet usually, but now it’s almost as if he fades into the background. 

Atsumu grasps at him, but Suna slips through his fingers and into the shadows.

“Could be our last game together, then,” Atsumu mentions, absently, and runs a finger across the tape. “Can’t have ya benched for Nationals.”

He glances at the red thread again, and slowly, brings it to slide in between the metal of the blades, pulling taut. Steady, steady, steady. His heartbeat thuds beneath his ribs. It hurts.

“Suna,” he whispers. Suna’s eyes lock onto his, and Atsumu exhales through his nose. “I’m really sorry about your thumb.” The scissors snap closed, and the string severs, falling limp.

He brings his hands away, folding them in his lap, clenched tight enough he can’t say if they’re trembling or not.

“You’re acting weird, Atsumu. I told you, it’s not a big deal. It barely hurts anymore,” Suna replies, easily, because it’s true.

Atsumu smiles. “Then why are you cryin'?” And this time, he allows himself to bring a crooked finger up to brush the soft skin at the underside of Suna’s eye, gathering up the tears.

________________________________ 

_“I feel terrible, like there’s a weight on my chest.”_

_“A heart’s a heavy burden.”_

________________________________ 

A text from an unknown number. [ _1 image_ ] it says. 

Atsumu clicks on it. Eastern Japan Paper Mills Raijin, jersey number seven and bright, bright white.

It’s quiet at three in the morning, and the streetlights weep their yellow glow in a soft downpour.

Stepping out of the light, Atsumu holds his hand out in front of him and watches the way it disappears in the dark, night sky seeping in between his fingertips.

He heads home; he's got practice in the morning.

________________________________ 

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—  
I took the one less traveled by,  
And that has made all the difference.  
  
-Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken_

**Author's Note:**

> The first quote is from Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz.
> 
> twitter at [@atsusuna](https://www.twitter.com/atsusuna)


End file.
